Chapter 5
Don shifted uncomfortably on the bench facing the fountain.
All sorts of things just weren't right.
For one thing, he didn't like inactivity. Sitting on a stupid bench watching a stupid fountain waiting for something — he wasn't sure what — to happen. It made him feel hinky.
And another thing He hadn't seen David or Megan at breakfast. True, the dining room served breakfast for two hours, and technically they could have come and gone either before or after Don and Archie. Except that being there at the same time was part of the game plan. Their absence was definitely hinky.
Then, there was home.
Something wasn't right at home.
It was making him crazy to be cut off from the outside world. No way to call his father, or Charlie. No newspapers or televisions. He tried to tell himself that the frustration of it was what tightened his chest a little more with every passing hour.
It was ridiculous. He had lived independently for quite some time. Away from Charlie for years. But he couldn't stop it. The last couple of days, it would just happen. During a massage, a swim in the spa pool, even a horseback ride yesterday. Suddenly, something in his head would whisper, 'Charlie', and he would break out in a cold sweat.
When Archie had confessed similar feelings last night on their walk to meet David and Megan, it had scared him so badly he almost got up and left.
It was crazy. He couldn't blow an undercover operation, resign from the FBI, run home … just because of a strange and unwelcome obsession about his brother.
No, that would be beyond hinky.
He felt Archie stiffen beside him. "Look who's coming."
Don followed her gaze, surprised. David was striding right for them. They weren't supposed to know each other. Why was David taking this risk? Where was Megan?
David stopped and spoke with another couple, then came to them at the bench.
"Excuse me." He stuck a hand out, and Don shook it, waiting. "David Sandoval. I've seen you around, the last few days. Perhaps you've noticed my wife and I. She's about six inches shorter than I am, long honey-blond hair, green eyes — I seem to have misplaced her." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm just asking around. Megan. My wife's name is Megan."
"We'll help you look," offered Archie, standing. She looked down at Don. "Sweetheart, we can skip that yoga class."
Don stood to play his part, but suddenly there was a spa employee there, obvious from his salmon-colored polo shirt. "Mr. and Mrs. Martin! I hope you're enjoying your stay. Mr. Sandoval, if I might have a moment of your time? I need to speak with you privately."
David held Don's eyes for a moment before he answered "Of course", and allowed himself to be led away.
Don looked long and hard at Archie.
That — that was definitely hinky.
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Alan leaned forward in the chair, hands hanging between his knees.
"I don't understand." His voice was bewildered. "He was fine when I left this morning." He heard his own words and grimaced. "Well. Shot three times, unconscious … relatively speaking, he was fine."
Dr. Fitzgerald smiled kindly. "It's not totally unexpected. Infection was always a risk. His temperature began to rise just a few hours after you left. We tried to keep it under control, but within hours, it was high enough to cause the seizure, which in turn led to the flatline."
"I don't need to hear all that again," Alan said, not a little angrily. "I need to hear what you're going to do about it."
Dr. Reese spoke up this time. "As much as we can. We've been aggressive with antibiotics since your son first presented in the ER, but we've added two more — sort-of an antibiotic cocktail, we're going for. We're tapering off the barbiturates. The fluid around his brain and the swelling seem to have reduced, if only minimally. Ideally, we'd like to leave him under for a few more days, but the use of a medically-induced coma state is becoming highly controversial – in part because of increased infections. Because there is still brain trauma, we're also weaning him from the breathing tube. If he is drawing enough oxygen on his own by morning, we'll remove that while he is still under some residual barbiturate influence. We don't want him to wake up and start fighting it. The fever is quite high, so he is being placed on a special cooling bed and packed with ice."
"Packed with ice?"
"It's vital that we reduce his temperature."
Alan swallowed. "How high is it?"
Dr. Reese met his gaze. "106. Which is an improvement. When the seizure began, it was over 107."
"Dear God. How long can that go on without permanent damage?"
"We'll do all we can to prevent that," responded Dr. Fitzgerald, telling Alan more with his non-answer than he really wanted to know.
Dr. Reese stood to signal an end to the meeting. "I'm afraid we can't allow you to see him again today."
Alan actually moaned with physical pain, and the doctor's eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Mr. Eppes. By morning, we're hoping that the fever will be broken, the breathing tube out, the barbiturates in his system greatly reduced. We're hoping your son has a busy night. We hope he has the strength for it."
Alan stood and prepared to go back and update Larry. "So do I," he mumbled, heading for the door of the office. "So do I."
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David clutched the photograph of Megan in his hand. She was gagged, tied to a chair. He tried to focus on the words floating around him.
"So you see, Mr. Sandoval, it really is in your wife's best interest to make a donation. Our research department is very thorough. We know that you are both quite wealthy. A few million is really nothing to you."
"I need some time, Richards," David growled. "It's not like we brought that much with us."
Jordan Richards spread his fingers out over the desk between them. "Of course. But we need you to understand that time is of the essence. You have 12 hours for the money to be successfully wired to this account." He shoved a slip of paper toward David and stood. "I will leave you with this telephone for a few minutes. Please be aware that everything you say is being monitored, and that your wife is not safe." Richards opened a desk drawer and removed a small box — the kind that comes from a jewelry store. He stood and walked around the desk, offering the box to David. "For every hour we are forced to wait beyond that deadline, we will add one of these to your collection."
David refused to take the box, so Jordan Richards sighed and placed it delicately on the desk in front of him. "Time starts now, Mr. Sandoval." With that, he left David alone.
David heard the click of the door behind him, heard a key turning in a lock. His eyes searched the room and he saw video cameras mounted in two corners. Who knew what other equipment he couldn't see. He reached out and picked up the box, opened it carefully.
It was rather artfully presented, arranged in a bed of cotton.
Long, slender, wearing what David knew was one of Megan's favorite rings.
He swore.
Richards had literally given him the finger.