Chapter 9 – Now What?
"Here you go," Broots said, handing the clipboard back to the woman in the billing office. All of the information for Miss Parker was roughly the same as the information for himself and his daughter – they worked for the same department at the Centre. The only differences were in her personal information – address, social security number – which he had quietly stored in his wallet a long time ago, after her first time being admitted to a hospital while in the field.
He knew Sydney also had Miss Parker's information – but he'd never questioned that – anymore than he'd ask questions if he'd discover that she had Sydney's information. The history between Sydney and Miss Parker went WAY back – they'd known each other when she had been a child. Their relationship was far more complex and deep than that of mere coworkers, and Broots had stopped trying to understand the dynamics involved – even when it spilled out unexpectedly where he couldn't help but see. There was a depth to that relationship – hidden and barely even acknowledged by either of them – that tied those two together. That same depth and breadth of the relationship was certainly the driving force behind her single-minded pursuit of something – anything – that would prove him innocent of the charges leveled against him.
"Thanks," the woman with the nametag that read "Nancy" accepted the clipboard back and reviewed all the areas that he'd filled in. "That should do it."
"Can we see her now?" Sam asked quietly but firmly, having held his peace while Broots took care of the paperwork that was the primary reason for their having been called out of their beds at this hour.
Nancy looked at the two gentlemen in her small office, recognized that they had discomfited themselves for the sake of the hospital red tape and decided to throw them a bone. "I tell you what – if the duty nurse says that Miss Parker is still awake, I'll let you go back for a very short visit. How's that?"
"We need to pick up her personal effects anyway," Broots reminded her.
She tapped at her computer keyboard for a moment and the rose. "Follow me," she gestured and led the way out the door and down one corridor, around a corner and down another corridor. At the end, she turned again and led them up to the nurse's station. "These gentlemen are here for Melissa Parker's things – and would like to visit it with her very briefly, if she's still awake."
The nurse, a tall woman with pale eyes, nodded at her hospital coworker. "I was just in there a few minutes ago – and while she was starting to get groggy, she was still alert." She pointed down the hallway. "Room 176."
Sam tapped Broots on the shoulder and headed off down the hallway at a decent clip. Broots thanked the nurse and hurried after the sweeper. Room 176 was three quarters of the way down the hall and on the right – and Miss Parker was the only patient in the two-bed room, lying still in the bed by the window. While the light in the room was low, it was obvious that just the movement in the doorway was enough to attract her attention.
"Oh, now don't you two just look wonderful," Miss Parker's voice sounded distant and weak despite its attempt to mimic her normal sarcasm. Neither man had taken the time to shave – and both were sporting rather dark shadows about their cheeks and chins. Sam's hair looked decidedly ungroomed, with a few defiant cowlicks not quite sticking straight up in the air. It was a definite case of pillow-head, if she'd ever seen one – and a sight that touched her as little else had of late.
"You're one to talk - you aren't in any shape to be competing in a beauty contest either," Sam retorted dryly. Miss Parker's face had several bruises on it – one bad one just above her left eye – and her right hand and wrist were covered in plaster. From what Broots had told him in the car, there was probably a foot equally encumbered by plaster beneath the sheets and blankets on the bed. "I take it the truck won?"
"God, it just came out of nowhere," she shook her head very carefully and then closed her eyes with a tiny moan. Her neck was sore as Hell and didn't want to let her head move very far without shooting pains through her shoulders.
"Geez, Miss Parker! What were you doing out and about late at night?" Broots pulled closer and dared touch the back of the hand that wasn't in a cast.
"Yeah, that's what I'd like to know too," Sam moved closer to the other side, his tone of voice communicating his disappointment and disapproval. "You PROMISED me you wouldn't…"
Miss Parker was looking confused, and she frowned at Broots. "But you called me – said Debbie was missing…"
Broots looked up at Sam sharply, then shook his head gently and patted her hand on the coverlet. "You must have been dreaming, Miss Parker. Debbie's at home fast asleep – she's fine. I didn't call you."
"But I heard you…" she protested, her gaze bouncing from one skeptical face to the other. "And I can prove it this time!" she announced triumphantly and struggled to sit up. "Where are my clothes?"
"You aren't getting out of that bed," Sam put up a preventative hand to her shoulder, "not in the shape you're in!"
"No, you idiot! Look in my sweater pocket! I had a sneaky hunch that something might be up – considering our discussion last night just before you left," she reminded the sweeper, "so I took the tape out of my answering machine before I got into the car. I wanted to have proof that I wasn't dreaming this up, in case things weren't the way they seemed..."
Broots had followed the gesture to the closet, where he found her clothing – wrinkled and some of it bloody – hanging as neatly as it could. And there within the pocket of the sweater jacket she'd been wearing, were two mini-cassettes. "Two of them?" he inquired, holding up his find.
"I couldn't remember which was outgoing and which was incoming – and I didn't have the time to make sure. My answering machine is completely nonfunctional at the moment." She closed her eyes again against the many ways in which her body HURT, and then opened them again to look earnestly at her personal sweeper. "I know I promised I'd go to bed and stay in bed, Sam – but when I heard Broots, or somebody I thought was Broots, telling me that something was wrong with Debbie…"
"I understand," Sam reassured her with a gentle expression on his usually taciturn face. "At least it wasn't as if you were going down to ream Lyle a new orifice, after all…"
"That's an activity worth trying at least once in lifetime, lemme tell you…" she chuckled at the memory and then moaned out loud. "Ow – my ribs…"
"It's late – and we need to leave you alone so you can rest and start to mend a bit," Broots gave Sam a sharp look and jerked his head toward the door. "We'll just take your clothes and things and bring you back something cleaner when it's time to spring you."
"Thanks," Miss Parker told them both very sincerely, "and thanks for coming up at this horrible hour of the morning."
"You just get better now, Miss P," Sam told her firmly. "I'll call the Dover D.A.'s office tomorrow and see if I can't get Sydney's arraignment postponed until after you're released from the hospital – barring the miracle of our discovering who the Hell is doing all this…"
"I'll take the miracle, Sam, believe me," she replied. Broots had her clothing down and folded into a neat heap in his arms, and Sam had found and taken charge of her purse.
"Goodnight, Miss Parker. Get better soon."
"G'nite, boys. Thanks again."
Sam and Broots walked out of her room and back down the hall in the direction they'd come from. "She says that someone pretended to be me and claimed Debbie was…"
"If that tape confirms her story, we have a bigger mystery than ever," Sam stated somberly. "It means that someone has been deliberately gas-lighting her." He noticed that Broots' steps faltered a little in surprise. "This would have been the third time she'd have claimed to see or hear something, only to have it not be there later on. I'll bet you honest green that her taking that answering machine tape herself is the only reason that it still exists."
"You think somebody's trying to hurt Miss Parker?" Broots asked in hushed, horrified tones.
"I think somebody's having an awful lot of fun at the expense of a few too many people," Sam answered dourly. "And I intend to get to the bottom of this, if it kills me."
"Don't say that," Broots mumbled superstitiously. "It ain't funny anymore."
oOoOo
"Dad, what are these clothes doing here?" Debbie asked, pausing on her way to the breakfast table to check out the pile of bloody clothing sitting on the bureau near the stairwell.
"Leave those alone, Sweet Pea," Broots called out from the kitchen. "Those are Miss Parker's. I'm going to get them cleaned on the way to work today."
Debbie walked into the kitchen with a frown on her face. "What are you doing with Miss Parker's stuff, Dad?" she asked a little more seriously. "And is that blood?"
Broots looked up and sighed. Debbie had become very attached to Miss Parker over the last few years – and remarkably, his usually prickly boss had reciprocated. The two females had instituted a 'girl's day' one Saturday a month, and both seemed to enjoy the hours they spent together shopping or seeing movies. "Miss Parker was in a car accident last night, honey," he told her gently. "I went in to the hospital to see her, and picked up her stuff."
Debbie's blue eyes watched her father set the plate with Pop Tarts down. "How badly was she hurt?" she asked apprehensively.
"Badly enough that she's going to be spending a couple of days in the hospital," he answered as he poured her orange juice. "Whiplash, bruised ribs, broken wrist…" He broke off as the telephone began to ring. "Go ahead and eat," he urged his daughter and walked to the hallway. "This is Broots…"
"Mr. Broots," Jarod's smooth tones sounded in his ear.
"Ja…Jarod? What are you d…doing calling here?" the balding technician stammered in surprise.
Jarod's voice held no hint of amusement at the response he'd gotten. "Well, I'd have called Miss Parker – but it seems she's not answering her home phone, her cell phone, and her answering machine doesn't seem to want to…"
"Jarod," Broots began nervously.
"What is it? She told me she wanted me to call her often, in case there was news…"
"She was in a car accident last night," Broots burst out, knowing there was no good way to tell the Pretender the news. "She's at Dover General…"
"How badly was she hurt?" Jarod demanded harshly.
"It could have been a lot worse," he told him quickly. "Whiplash, bruised ribs, broken wrist and ankle…"
"She's not going to be able to help Sydney very much from a hospital bed…"
"I know," Broots acknowledged. "We're intending to call the judge in Dover to see if we can't talk him into postponing the arraignment until…"
"Good luck," Jarod sighed. "Take down this number – and call me when you know anything."
Broots had paper and pencil handy, having used it often enough over the years with Miss Parker doing the dictation. "Shoot."
Jarod rattled off ten numbers quickly, which Broots immediately rattled back at him. "That's my cell phone," he told the technician. "Don't give that number to anybody."
"I won't," Broots promised. The click that followed his promise told him that the call had been disconnected. He pressed the "J" button on his electronic rolodex machine next to the telephone and inserted the scrap of paper with the number into that section without labeling whose number it was – but not until he'd committed the number to memory. Something told him that knowing the number off the top of his head might come in handy – if not during this crisis, then some time in the future.
oOoOo
William Raines breathing grew labored during the short time that Willy had his plastic canula line disconnected from the nearly empty tank and was moving the new tank onto the little cart. Finally he sucked in a deep breath of the top of the new canister with gratitude. "Ah! That's better," he looked up into the face of the one person at the Centre he knew he could trust above all others. This morning tank switch had become a routine over the years – there was just enough in the evening tank to hold him throughout the night and get him back in to work, but Willy needed to be ready and able to switch out the tanks first thing in the morning.
"You heard the news?" Willy asked his boss after moving the empty tank to the storage bay with the other depleted green cylinders.
"What news is that?" the old man wheezed curiously.
"Lyle's a no-show again," the dark-faced sweeper announced with just the tiniest hint of glee. "That makes two days in a row, when…"
"When Miss Parker's attentions are turned elsewhere," Raines finished for him and then breathed in noisily. "We cannot have that," he agreed with a nod. "Go – and bring him back with you without fail. We'll have to educate Mr. Lyle on the virtues of dedication again, I see…"
"Yes, Mr. Raines," Willy turned sharply on his heel and strode proudly from the room. He was on a mission for his boss – and nobody had better get in his way.
Raines reached for the first file folder in his inbox, ready to start another exciting day as the Chairman of the Centre. Had he known back when just how much of the Chairman's duties involved simple paper-pushing rather than overseeing the research, he might have not been quite so keen on earning the Big Chair for all that time. As it was, considering his physical condition lately, paper-pushing was about all the pushing he could do – short of having the vicarious thrill of having Willy do the pushing FOR him where he could watch and enjoy it, that was.
If the pile of papers on his desk weren't so urgent – as they always were at this hour of the day – he might have insisted on accompanying Willy on his retrieval of Lyle. That young maverick was tricky to control, requiring a delicate touch at times combined with the harsh discipline that had been his primary upbringing. What was more, Lyle had… tendencies… that, if left unchecked, could bode ill for the Centre when they became widely known.
He looked up as the etched glass doors to the inner office opened slowly, and then frowned when he recognized the one who had just entered his sanctum. "Oh, it's you," he wheezed, thoroughly unimpressed. "What the Hell do you think YOU want?"
oOoOo
"I didn't know you knew the security alarm code for Miss Parker's house," Broots gaped as Sam punched in the numeric code and turned the green lights on the panel off.
"I didn't," the tall sweeper admitted. "I watched her when she let us into the house last night after that fiasco with her little brother."
"Oh," the technician accepted the explanation, knowing that Sam's observational abilities and intelligence being continually underestimated was one of the reasons Miss Parker valued his services so highly. "Mind telling me what we're doing here?"
"Checking out a hunch," Sam answered cryptically, pushing the door open after turning her key in the lock. "You should run upstairs and collect her some fresh, clean clothing while I do my poking about."
"ME?" Broots gaped. "Go rummaging around in her dr… drawers…" The idea was enough to make him stagger back a step.
"Good God, man, buck up!" Sam barked at the smaller man in exasperation. "She's not here, and she's not going to bite you for bringing her decent clothing to wear when they let her out of the hospital."
"Fine," Broots retorted, summoning some courage from a hidden corner of his nature, "then YOU paw through her… unmentionables!"
Oh, no, Sam thought to himself. He had a very clear idea what Miss Parker would tolerate – and from whom. "Move it!" he growled at Broots and headed off in the direction of the kitchen.
"Man, why do I always have to do this," Broots muttered indignantly to himself as he mounted the stairs and peeked in the first bedroom, finding it so clean and neat and undisturbed that he realized he'd discovered her guest room. There were only two other doors on the second floor – one of them HAD to be hers. The second door was to the spacious bath, and so he gathered a deep breath and pushed open the third door.
Yes, this was her bedroom all right. Bedclothes were tumbled in chaos on the bed, as they would have been for an abrupt, late-night rising. A silken nightgown lay in a shining pool on the floor – probably where she'd dropped it as she'd gotten dressed. "Man, Miss Parker, I really don't mean…" he muttered to himself again as he pulled open the top left drawer in her dresser and found himself face to face with silken panties in every possible color of the rainbow. He pulled open the top right drawer and, as he'd expected, found the matching bras to those colorful panties. He reached in and grabbed a white set that he hoped matched – he wasn't about to stare at them and make sure, that was damned sure – and dropped them on the end of the bed to move to her closet to get outer clothing and a pair of shoes for her.
Strangely enough, several delicate blouses were tumbled to the floor just inside the closet door, the hangers where they'd been arranged having been pushed back against their mates. Broots bent and retrieved a white one from the heap, tucking it over his arm while he moved down the way to unclip a pair of black trousers to finish the outfit. When he looked down to see what selection of shoes he had to work with, he noticed that they, too, looked disturbed.
"Sam," he called out sharply. "Up here!"
After a moment, he could hear the heavy footfall of the sweeper's rapid ascent of the stairs. "Broots?"
"In here!" he called back and stepped out of the closet.
Sam stuck his head around the door and then pushed it fully open. "What?"
"Something's not right – I think someone was in her closet!" Broots pointed to the jumble of shoes and puddle of silken blouses.
"I think you're right," Sam agreed, his eyes narrowed. He turned around and gazed about the room, and then moved quickly over to the nightstand. There, the telephone-answering machine device had been pulled away from the wire that held it to the wall and dumped on the floor. "And I think Miss P's little precaution pissed somebody off."
"I didn't even see that," Broots breathed in surprise. "I was too busy getting… stuff…"
Sam dug in his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves – something that each sweeper made certain they carried several of whenever they were in the field. He picked up the device and looked at it gingerly. "I'm hoping we can get some prints from this – maybe we'll start to get a lead on who's messing with her."
Broots picked up the undergarments he'd deposited on the end of the bed and put them with the clothing he was already carrying. "Where to now?"
"The Centre," Sam replied. "I want to go through her office with a fine-toothed comb. She swears there was a file folder talking about a research experiment that endangered her little brother – how much you want to bet she DID see it?"
"Man – what's going on around here?" Broots mumbled in a whiney voice as he led the way out of the bedroom and towards the stairs. "Who'd want to do something like this – and why?"
"When I find out," Sam promised from behind him, "they're gonna be sorry they ever crossed paths with me."
"Leave some for me," Broots announced in an odd, serious tone. "She's my friend too."
Sam blinked. Yeah, the little man had a point. He was pissed because someone was messing with someone he cared about. SHE might not put it in so many words, but he DID consider her a friend. "You got it," he promised darkly.
oOoOo
Willy's steps as he walked toward the etched glass doors of his boss' inner sanctum weren't quite as quick or lively as they had been when he'd walked away. Even though he enjoyed a position of unprecedented access and privilege with Mr. Raines, he still detested being the one to have to give the man any bad news – the reaction was always so unpredictable. Raines' secretary barely looked up and nodded him through – her standard mode of dealing with him. She had her headphones on and was typing as fast as her fingers would move, rendering from dictation a letter or document for her employer.
"Sir, we have a problem," he announced as he pushed the glass doors open. "Lyle's been arres…" He fell silent and his steps hesitated as he took in the scene.
Raines was sprawled across his desk, one hand outstretched toward the door and the other pressing on the intercom button. His eyes were closed, and his face was flushed.
"Sir!" Willy broke from his shock and ran to his employer's side to press trained fingers into the man's neck in search of a pulse. He let out a sigh of relief when he felt a pulse, weak and sluggish, but present. "Sir?" he called again, slapping Raines' face none too gently in trying to get a response from the man. Raines' eyelids fluttered a little, and he moaned.
In desperation, he reached out for the intercom button and pressed down hard. "We need a medical team in here immediately," he barked – and then waited for a response. Waited too long for a response. With a frown, he dashed to the door and threw it open, startling the secretary completely.
"What?" she asked in a slightly panicked voice, throwing her earphones back from her head.
Willy's eye shifted to the intercom – which should have had a light blinking on it from the summons he'd made. The light was dark – no summons had gotten through. "Call a medical team," he barked again and hurried back in to his boss.
He'd not managed to help his boss regain consciousness by the time the two-man medical team arrived from the Renewal Wing. "What happened here?" the lead medic demanded.
"I'm hoping you can tell me," Willy retorted, making room for the medics to move the stricken man from his position at his desk onto the gurney they'd brought with him.
"Has he been ill, or complaining of anything before now?" the second medic asked, picking up a clipboard from the kit he'd carried in with him.
Willy shook his head, and then shook his head several times more over the next few minutes as the questions kept coming, but no answers that could explain what had happened were forthcoming in reply. The first medic had the oxygen tank safely unfixed from the cart that was Willy's main task when accompanying his boss and stowed on its side in a rack near the wheels of the gurney.
"We'll take him down and see if we can't figure things out from there," the first medic finally announced, pulling up on the gurney so that it would be easier to handle.
Willy followed the gurney out of the office and stopped next to the secretary's desk. "Nobody gets into this office until I get back, do you understand?" he told her in a very quiet and dangerous voice.
The young woman, recently reassigned from the Clerical Pool, could only nod with wide and frightened eyes. The sweeper, satisfied that whatever evidence might be in the office would remain safe for the time being, hurried to catch up with the gurney and the medics before they could enter the elevator and cost him time cooling his heels until the elevator could return.
oOoOo
"Close the door," Sam ordered in his quiet and most authoritative voice, and watched with satisfaction as Broots complied without question.
The technician looked around Miss Parker's office. It had never been overly furnished or filled with cabinets – even her desk was little more than a thick sheet of Plexiglas on a metal frame. She'd obviously adopted some of the decorating techniques of the Japanese – not surprising, considering the amount of time spent in that country.
Sam moved to behind the desk, peering into the trash container first, and then looking up at Broots, who stood stock-still in the middle of the room. "C'mon," he urged in a growl. "Help me search this place…"
"There isn't a whole lot to search THROUGH," Broots complained softly, moving over to the one file cabinet in the room and opening the top drawer. "Are you SURE…"
Sam wasn't paying attention. He'd pulled her answering machine over and opened it, and was pulling the tapes out of it. "Let's see whether Miss Parker has sent us on a wild goose chase or not, shall we?" he told the technician as he plugged the first of the two tapes into a slot and hit the playback button.
"This is a machine – I assume you know how to use it…"
"That's her outgoing message," Broots chirped knowingly. "I've hit it often enough…"
Sam grunted and pulled the little cassette from the machine and inserted the other and hit playback and crossed his arms over his chest to listen.
"Miss Parker, pick up! My God, Debbie!"
There was the sound of fumbling, and then Miss Parker's sleepy voice broke in: "Broots?"
"She's gone, Miss Parker! Help…" and then the call was disconnected.
Sam looked up at Broots, who was staring in disbelief at the machine. "That sounded a lot like me," the bald technician breathed in dismay.
"The value of this tape is that it not only proves that Miss Parker wasn't joking about a phone call, supposedly from you, calling her out of bed to come to your rescue – but we have the asshole's voiceprint now." Sam stopped the tape and pulled the little cassette from the machine to slip back into his pocket.
"We can get it downstairs to the lab – I know that Jerry can…"
Sam frowned. "Jerry?"
"Yeah, he's the fellow with the harelip that sing karaoke at the Mud Pit on Satur…."
"No!" Sam's rejection was explosive. "I don't want anybody working on this that I can't trust to work for Miss Parker's benefit." He rounded a cold, blue stare at the technician. "I don't know this Jerry."
"Then who…" Broots' mind was flying, trying to think of an alternative. There was only one dependable alternative. "What about Jarod?"
Sam stared. "Jarod!"
"Jarod would know how to test the voiceprint – and he can be trusted to work for Miss Parker's benefit." Broots stood his ground. "He's already working this case for Sydney – and it does seem all tied together…"
It went against everything that Sam knew to trust the escaped Pretender with the welfare of his boss – but Broots was right. Jarod, for all his faults, had never deliberately done anything to harm Miss Parker. Feed her painful truths, yes – out and out harm, no. "OK," Sam agreed reluctantly. "Do you know how to contact him?"
"I have an email address," Broots said carefully, not willing to expose his much more immediate access to the man he'd spent the last eight years chasing all over the countryside.
"Then get to a secure terminal and get a message off to him," Sam paced back and forth. "Tell him we need to meet – at Miss Parker's."
"I don't think he'll come," Broots offered. "He might come for her – and maybe even for Sydney – but for US…"
"If he cares about either of them, he'll come," Sam stated in a dark tone. He seemed to snap out of a dangerous reverie and gestured abruptly to Broots. "Go on. I'll keep going through things here, just in case that folder is still around but just hidden."
Broots scuttled through Miss Parker's office door, heading toward his own workspace and the security of a closed door behind which he could place a telephone call. He had a cell phone – and it was urgent. Surely Jarod would understand…
Sam walked over to the file cabinet and began to slowly go through the files. What had she said the project name was… oh yeah: Fountain of Youth. He started with the A's and sifted diligently through each one, reading the name on the label tab conscientiously. If that folder were here, he was going to find it, by God…
oOoOo
Willy leaned back against the closed door of the Renewal Wing, trying to wrap his mind around the sight of the doctor slowly pulling the sheet over the face of his boss. Dead! After all this time, and after beating the odds so many times, William Raines was dead.
It was as if the props had been swept out from underneath his entire world. All of his authority, all of his intimidation strength, had come from being in the back pocket of one of the most powerful men at the Centre. He'd eschewed the comaraderie of the rest of the sweeper's corps for the power of walking through the halls of the Centre and watching the rest of the peons move meekly to the side – just as they did for Lyle and Miss Parker.
And now…
And now his options were extremely limited. Mr. Raines had had him do many things in his time as his personal sweeper and confidante – things that had estranged him from the rest of the pool of Centre operatives. Those who stood to move up a rung on the Centre power ladder would want nothing whatsoever to do with him due to his past affiliation with the most despised man in the organization. He was alone now – and as lacking in power now as he had been in possessing it a mere two hours earlier.
Willy ran his hand down his face in frustration. He couldn't think of that now. Mr. Raines was dead – and it didn't look to be a natural death. Already, the doctors in the Renewal facility were talking poisoning – that even dead, Raines' body had looked flushed. It could be carbon monoxide poisoning – if he weren't sure that he'd given the man pure oxygen that morning…
This was just too much of a coincidence. Sydney – in jail. Lyle – in jail. Miss Parker – in the hospital. And now Raines – dead. Willy straightened up and pulled his sports jacket straight. If he didn't know any better, he'd say someone was creating a vacuum of power at the very top of the Centre food chain – perhaps in order to make a leap for the Big Brass Ring.
But how to prove it – much less find out who was behind this? The only people working on anything approaching this were…
Willy's posture sagged. The only people to whom he could go with his suspicions were people who would be the most suspicious of him and least likely to want anything to do with him at all: Sam and Broots – Miss Parker's loyal minions.
He had no choice. He pulled himself stiffly erect and began walking down the hall. He'd talk to Sam first – Broots would be too cowardly to get a straight answer. He'd stop at his workspace and ditch his gun too. Perhaps Sam would take him seriously enough to at least hear him out if he came to the man unarmed.
He could only hope.
