Syndrome - Thomas Hoover (best summer books .TXT) 📗

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